Eyes:

the only parts of the body the same 
size at birth as they’ll always be. 
“That’s why all babies are beautiful,” 
Thurber used to say as he grew 
blind—not dark, he’d go on 
to explain, but floating in a pale 
light always, a kind of candlelit 
murk from a sourceless light. 
He needed dark to see:
for a while he drew on black 
paper with white pastel chalk 
but it grew worse. Light bored 
into his eyes but where did it go? 
Into a sea of phosphenes,
along the wet fuse of some dead 
nerve, it hid everywhere and couldn’t 
be found. I’ve used up
three guesses, all of them
right. It’s like scuba diving, going down 
into the black cone-tip that dives 
farther than I can, though I dive 
closer all the time.